


Electric Dreamers

by twisted_structures



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:59:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisted_structures/pseuds/twisted_structures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in the twenty second century, scientists advanced the evolution of artificial intelligence into the 'Nexus' phase – an android virtually identical to humans known as a 'Replicant'. The Replicants were superior in strength and agility, and at least equal in intelligence to the engineers that created them.</p>
<p>Replicants were used on off-planet explorations as slave labour during the process of discovering, terraforming and eventually colonising potentially hazardous planets within the solar system. Following a mutiny by several hundred fourth-generation combat-grade Replicants in the mid twenty-second century, their existence became illegal on Earth, under penalty of death.</p>
<p>Full description inside. Main pairing is F/F.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Voight-Kampff

**Author's Note:**

> Full Description: Early in the twenty second century, scientists under the employment of the Heinrich Corporation advanced the evolution of artificial intelligence into the 'Nexus' phase – an android virtually identical to humans known as a 'Replicant'. The Replicants were superior in strength and agility, and at least equal in intelligence to the engineers that created them.
> 
> Nexus Replicants were used on off-planet explorations as slave labour during the process of discovering, terraforming and eventually colonising potentially hazardous planets within the solar system. Following a mutiny by several hundred fourth-generation combat-grade Replicants in the mid twenty-second century, their existence became illegal on Earth, under penalty of death.
> 
> Specialised police squads, known as 'Blade Runner Units', were quickly formed and received orders to kill any trespassing Replicants. This was to be performed only after a thorough examination using government-deemed appropriate methods, known as the ‘Voight-Kampff Test’. This technique developed and improved over the decades that followed, until the Blade Runners late twenty-third century had the technique near-perfected, the method of killing the sixth-generation Replicants was likened to an art form.
> 
> This was not called ‘murder’.
> 
> This was called 'retirement'.
> 
> ...
> 
> Warning/Notice: this story is going to be full of violence, gore, and rule 63 (Canada, Russia, and Italy). This is basically Blade Runner/the Blade Runner universe and Hetalia (I do try to make it my own, though). I know, I know, I should be shot, I came up with the idea when I was 14 and 4 years later though it’s a little silly I stand by it, hahaha.
> 
> Naturally, everything belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, Phillip K. Dick, and Ridley Scott.
> 
> This is a prologue, which will become relevant later. Russia/Ivana is in the next chapter, and that’s where the story ultimately begins, so feel free to stick around. :+)

It was not a large or comfortable room.

It was small, cramped, with a window that gave as much light as an empty matchbox. The man was expressionless as he calibrated the eye monitor. After a moment of adjustment, it aligned itself with the right eye of the man sitting in front of him. He smiled, knowing that if his superior were here he would have complained about the room's lack of décor. _Oh, Francis_ , he thought idly. Finishing the final adjustment of the machine, whose lunchbox sized, metal container had the name ‘Voight-Kampff’ emblazoned on its top in all-capital brass lettering. He looked at the machine fondly. _Well, of course I'm going to look at this machine fondly_ , Alfred thought, running his calloused fingers along the print. _This little machine lines my wallet and retires those dirty skinjobs._

"Is it okay if I talk?” 

He blinked for a moment, mildly annoyed. After a moment, he decided to ignore the other man's question in favour of again ensuring that the eye monitor was properly adjusted.

"Sorry, I get totally nervous when I have to take tests." 

Alfred clenched his teeth. 

"Just don't move too much. This is a delicate process." 

"Okay, sorry", the other grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. After a moment of concentration, he could not help but to break into a sheepish smile. He cleared his throat, inspecting the nails on his left hand. He dusted his hand on his grey dress shirt, hesitating for a moment. He inhaled deeply before breaking the silence once more. 

"I, already had one of those, like, I.Q. tests this year. I don't think I've ever had a–" 

"Feliks Łukasiewicz, correct?" 

"Yeah, but like I was saying–" 

"Reaction time is always a factor in the Voight-Kampff test, so for the love of _Christ_ try to pay attention. Answer the questions I'm going to ask you as quickly as you can." 

"Uh", Feliks contemplated this for a moment, twiddling his thumbs. "Sure, whatever." 

"Good. Now, one eight seven at Hunterwasser-" 

"That's the hotel?" 

Now it was Feliks' turn to interrupt, his statement ending in an inquiring tone. He looked down at the Voight-Kampff machine, inspecting it, albeit facing the machine from a different angle to his counterpart. Feliks looked up, anticipating the other's response. Caught off guard, Alfred looked at him with a perplexed expression. Shaking his head and trying to convince himself that the man in front of him was not a complete chickenhead, he moved on. 

"Wha– oh, never mind. That’s where you live according to our records," Alfred nodded, as if to reassure himself. “Is it nice where you live?” 

"Yeah, I guess," Feliks answered, drifting into a momentary daydream. 

"Is that part of the test, Runner Jones?" 

Alfred shook his head, smiling patronisingly at him. 

"Just a warm up." 

"Oh, it's–" 

"You're in a desert, and you're walking along in the sand when all of a sudden you see a small-" 

"Which desert, sir?" 

Alfred's eye twitched. Is this man a halfwit, or something? 

"It doesn't make a damn difference what desert it is, Łukasiewicz. It's a hypothetical question; odds are it’ll never happen." Alfred said, gritting his teeth. He felt as though he was using every ounce of strength he had to not strangle the absolute chickenhead that sat before him. _I swear, I'm going to kick this bastard right in his stupid little face_. 

"Okay, but why would I be in some lame desert?" 

"I don't know, maybe you got fed up with your life, maybe you wanted to discover yourself, or the world, or be alone for a while. Who knows, right?" He chuckled slightly "So you look down and see a small tortoise. It's crawling towards you when–" 

"Sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about." 

"Wha- what's gotten you confused _now_?" 

"Well... I don't know what a tortoise even is for starters, Runner Jones." 

_Really. Really, Feliks? Fucking shit._

Alfred was not a saint, and he did not plan on ever becoming a martyr. 

He drank, smoked and until recently had no plans on even being in a committed relationship or doing anything to his life external to his career. When it came to his job as a Blade Runner, however, he took things very seriously. Sure, he would occasionally drift off, or generally goof around, but he would always give his full attention when it mattered. When he was performing the Voight-Kampff test he had always made sure that he was patient and as calm as possible so that he as the questioner could observe the responder's non-verbal cues – blushing, pupil dilation, et cetera. He owed it to the person in question, to the City and to himself. It was his job, his duty as a Blade Runner; it was something he genuinely cared about. 

But this was getting on his last nerve – Alfred wondered if he really was being taken for an idiot. _Unless_ , he thought with suspicion, pulling out a cigarette from a metal case in his jacket pocket. Putting it between his thin lips, he lit the cigarette, inhaling. 

Feliks seemed to sense the growing suspicion, which became obvious in his next statement. 

"I-I get what you mean, though, Runner Jones." 

_Nice back-pedalling_ , Alfred thought with a smirk, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from the right corner of his mouth. 

"So", Alfred began, more loudly than he had expected. 

"You reach down, and you flip the tortoise over on its back." 

Alfred kept an eye on Feliks, checking for any changes on the dials on the machine in front of him. One of the dials' needles flickered slightly, causing Alfred to raise an eyebrow. _Got you._

"Do people, like, write these questions down for you? Or do you, like, make them yourself?" 

_Just ignore him_ , he told himself, _diversion is too common to fall for_. 

"The tortoise is laying on its hard back, its soft belly baking in the hot desert sun, beating its stubby legs trying to turn itself over. But it can't without your help. But you don't help it." Feliks' upper lip quivered. 

"What do you mean? I'm totally _not_ helping the tortoise?" 

"I mean that you aren't helping the tortoise at all! Why aren't you helping it, Feliks? Why?" 

“I–I don’t–” 

A small light seemed to flicker on in Feliks’ mind as he grew flushed, his hands balled into tight fists; his knuckles turned slowly whiter. Alfred could hear his breathing move to his diaphragm, and grow quick with anger. To any onlooker, Feliks might have looked as though he, despite his small figure, was about to become physically violent. Thankfully, the doors to the small office were closed – the windows were too high up and too small for anyone to see the scene within. Alfred smiled disarmingly, flicking cigarette ash into a metal ashtray to his left. 

_Nice try._

"Ah, Feliks, they're just questions. To answer to your previous query, the questions are written down for me. It's a test, designed solely to provoke an emotional response." Feliks glared at him, though his anger subsided substantially. Looking slightly sunken, he gestured that Alfred might as well continue. He frowned suspiciously as Alfred did so. 

"Describe to me in single words only the good things that come into your mind when you think about your mother, Feliks." 

"My– my m-mother?" He stammered, floundering. 

It was clear to both parties involved that by this point Feliks was thoroughly shocked. Alfred silently noted that none of the needles in the Voight-Kampff machine had so much as twitched. _Oh fuck yeah_ , he thought, cheering internally, _I knew it. Fucking skinjob_. Alfred instinctively reached for the gun inside his coat. Feliks’ small size worked to his advantage, making him much faster. He succeeded pulling out his gun first, aiming at Alfred. He grinned menacingly. firing. 

In a matter of seconds, the laser burned two holes the size of a quarter and a baseball through Alfred's shoulder – the smaller completely through the flesh and bone, sitting within the centre of the larger. In an eerily soundless burst of blue light, Feliks had brightened the dingy room at an almost blinding level, as though he had released a small firework. Unlike what one would expect from a bullet, now long outdated, the laser caused no real impact. It went through Alfred's right shoulder and exited through his back. a small hole visible. The wall behind Alfred's seat bore a small black burn mark and a small spray of blood, Alfred flopping in his seat as though he was as lifeless as a rag doll. He fell out of his chair, cigarette slipping through his fingers and hitting the cement floor moments before his head. Blood slowly began to pool around his wound, an emergency alarm ringing in the distance. 

Feliks, at this point, had already begun to walk away. Before he did, though, he impulsively decided to do something dramatic – something the Blade Runner would remember him by. 

Turning, and with a small smile of satisfaction, he bent down and whispered something that only he and the semi-conscious Alfred could hear. 

"Why the hell would I talk about something we _both_ know I've never had?"


	2. Chapter One: Two Retirements

"Attention supervisory personnel! We need you! Lots of opportunity! Automatic advancement and top pay! Experience a whole new world! We need you! Special incentives!"

The large blimp flew overhead with a dull roar from its engine, the cacophonous shouted advertisement unavoidable, penetrating the upper floors of the buildings. Many people tried their hardest to keep walking – tried being the operative word. They pushed through the overcrowded street, trying to reach their destinations, and go about their own unique lives as quickly as possible. The advertisement blimp's rambling continued as a tall, young woman pushed her way through the crowd. She took a moment to catch her breath, adjusting her scarf before walking into a small Chinese restaurant. After a momentary pause for thought, she continued inside, sitting down at the long bench filled with people. She opened her menu while biting the inside of her cheek, a habit of contemplation. 

The advertisement still continued, echoing around the suburb, shaking the small restaurant’s flimsy windows slightly. 

“Better they shake than break!” A waitress said loudly and with a laugh, cleaning the recently vacated seat next to the woman with a grey-blue cleaning rag. She walked away as it continued. The woman hoped the grey on the rag was there when it was bought. 

"The Oxenstierna colony wants supervisory recruits and families. Get nostalgic! Join us in a clean, fresh environment featuring the invigorating twentieth century California climate! If you meet all of the health and experience qualifications for the Offshore Emigration Programs, feel free to submit the standard OSE short form! Discover a new world! Discover a new life! There's a place for you at the Oxenstierna Colony! Give yourself and your loved ones a brand new world! We need you!" 

The blimp's voice faded as it slowly drifted to a different part of the city, off to irritate the occupants of the next suburb. 

After about ten minutes, another waitress headed towards her. Recognition flared in her face, and she spun on her heel, almost running to the kitchen. She slammed the door behind her, and after a few seconds there were several cries of loud, possibly curse-laden, Mandarin. There was a loud cry that echoed through the restaurant, making several people who had been calmly eating their food turn around in curiosity. There was a loud shout, followed by a loud bang. 

Knowing a small amount of Mandarin, the young woman was slightly irked to think she was effectively called a 'creep' by what she assumed to be the proprietor. The door that led to the kitchen reopened after a moment or two, and a young man wearing a white apron emerged, panting and walking quickly towards her. He scowled, weaving through the people with a sharp kitchen knife in his hand, traces of food – the woman guessed chicken – sticking to the side. The younger woman looked at his face bemusedly, finding his current state of disarray just shy of hilarious. 

"What do you want, Braginskaya?" 

"To eat? But, oh _Yao_. We've known each other long enough for you to call me Ivana. I've told you that many, many times", Ivana said with a childish laugh. 

"Just get something to eat and get the hell out of my restaurant, you murdering creep." 

Ivana was taken aback. She sunk a little in her seat, uncomfortable with the accusation. Looking up at Yao, she swallowed uneasily. Yao sighed, putting his knife in a pouch on his apron, making eye contact with Ivana. Ivana inhaled loudly, sitting up slightly straighter. 

"You think I'm a murderer, Mr. Wang?" 

Yao could tell by her suddenly formality that Ivana was attempting to curb her disappointed anger. 

"Would you prefer it if there were several hundred Replicants – little more than machinery covered in human flesh – running around, creating havoc here in this dying hole, hm? If doing my job and retiring these _skinjobs_ made me a murderer, then so be it, yeah? Besides, I'm already in retirement. You know that. I know you know that. I know you know _why_ , too." 

Yao blinked. 

"You know that wasn't what I meant, Ivana. Look, I don't have time to argue with you. As you can see, I have hungry customers and low staff. Just don't break the plumbing and steal another U-bend like you did last time, okay?" 

"I'll have you know that was a J-bend, thank you!" Ivana yelled as he walked away. 

Yao stopped, turned towards her,, paused, then turned around on one heel, knife in hand, running back to the kitchen. Stomach growling, Ivana turned around and looked back at the menu. _Ahh, yes_ , she thought with a smile. _I think I'll have the fish today. Some vodka couldn’t hurt, either_. 

"What you want to eat, ma’am?" 

A young boy no older than sixteen looked up at her, grinning. Ivana gave no response for a moment. The boy took this as her simply not listening to what he had to say. He tapped her shoulder. 

"Excuse me, ma’am. I asked what you want to eat, ma’am?" 

“What’s your name, kid?” She asked. 

“I’m Yong-soo.” 

“You’re Korean?” 

“Yes, I am from Korea!” He nodded. 

_In a Chinese restaurant_ , Ivana thought. _Damn it Yao, you shit, it’s bad enough you’re from Jinan trying to this pass off as 'authentic Cantonese', what the fuck?_

Ivana sighed at the boy's awkward English, wondering how many people had been absolute assholes to the kid for it. She was reminded of when she first reached America, and how bad her English was, and the unnecessary bullshit she put up with. She sighed again, wondering if the boy would struggle if she were to answer in English. She opened the menu, turning it towards the boy and pointing at the image of the food she wanted to order. _I wonder if it would help if I switched? No, wait, that would probably embarrass him._

“I’d like some vodka, rice, and three pieces of fish, please.” 

Yong-soo pursed his lips for a moment, holding up two fingers to check if he was right. Ivana sighed, shaking her head and holding up three fingers. "Three pieces," she repeated. _Oh dear._ The boy nodded, heading towards the kitchen once more. 

_Whap!_

The young boy noisily placed a bowl of rice in front of Ivana, as well as a glass of vodka. He then proceeded to place two pieces of fish in front of her in a separate bowl. She blinked, taking a moment to register what she had just been served. Her right eye twitched. 

Two pieces of fish. 

Ivana's nostrils flared and her eyes widened. She took a moment and a deep breath, before trying to attract the young boy's attention. She decided that the best way to get the boy's attention would be to shout out his name. She shouted across the restaurant, which was surprisingly common on that day, and the boy ran out towards her. 

"What happened?" He shouted back at Ivana. Ivana held up three fingers on her left hand, using her right to point at the bowl of fish. Yong-soo titled his head to the side, looking as though she were a madwoman. Yong-soo made a strange expression before turning his head back to the people that he was now serving, ignoring Ivana's increasingly wild gesticulations. Sighing and returning to her seat, Ivana chugged the glass of vodka. She turned back to the food, deciding that the best course of action was to just eat the fish. 

“Oh! You want one more piece, ma’am!” Yong-soo said loudly, having his own eureka moment. He scurried back to the kitchen. “No problem, no problem, it's _service_!” 

*  


When she had finished her meal, she turned her head to the side, noticing that a large police officer was standing over her, tan arms akimbo. Ivana, feeling slightly off-put by this, turned back to her meal, trying to ignore the man. Remembering that she had already finished, she turned her head to the other side. Another, much smaller officer was standing on that side with a very impatient expression etched on his far paler face. Ivan sat up slightly straighter, looking straight ahead, hoping that the two officers would simply give up on her and leave. Unfortunately, she did not realise that they had actually arrived at this restaurant specifically for her. This fact was evident when Ivana felt a tap on her right shoulder. 

Turning to see the first officer, said officer pointed to Ivana's left. So, it’s the smaller one who wants to talk, she thought. Fuck. 

_"You are required to accompany Officer Karpusi and I, Braginskaya."_

Ivana Romanovna Braginskaya was a woman fluent in many languages. 

She spoke English, Russian, Polish, German, French and several others. What she could never in her twenty six years of existence grasp, however, was the pattern of any of the Asian languages – Japonic, Austronesian, Altaic, it did not matter. She had tried Japanese and Korean in the past, but with limited success. Luckily, she had enough knowledge of the language to realise that the man was speaking Japanese. Assuming that, since she was in a crowded restaurant the man must have wanted his seat, she responded accordingly. 

"Comrade, you will have to wait your turn. I still have five allocated seating minutes left." 

_"If you choose to not comply with this official request, I will be legally obliged to exert my authority over you."_

As luck would have it, Yong-soo returned at that very moment. 

"Sir, he saying you should go with him." 

Ivana blinked. 

"So that's what this is all about?" 

Yong-soo nodded quickly, translating what she had said into Japanese for the officer. They spoke for a moment before Yong-soo turned around. 

"Wait, you speak Japanese? I thought you were Korean? Or are you Zainichi?" 

Yong-soo grinned, shaking his head. 

"I learn Japanese and English at night class – getting better!" 

Ivana smiled, turning around to see the Japanese man waving a badge in her face. _Shouldn’t he be learning Chinese, if he works at a Chinese restaurant?_ She wondered, but realised it was probably none of her business what the boy did. 

"This Officer Honda, ma’am." 

_"To defy a police officer is to defy a higher authority."_

"He saying you are under arrest, ma’am!" 

Ivana raised an eyebrow. 

"Oh? Well, tell him he's looking at the wrong woman." Ivana cleared her throat, looking at Officer Honda. 

"I am not a wanted man. I have not committed a crime. You have the wrong person, okay?" Ivana said loudly and slowly, enunciating each syllable as though she were speaking to a small child, giving him a patronising thumbs-up at the end. 

_"He saying you are Kara-shini-kofu? What is that?"_

"Kalashnikov," the taller police officer said in a low, deep voice. 

Ivana shuddered at the term, but decided to look as her phone. Damn, it's not a mistake, she cursed silently. She bit her lip, looking at the other officer with a pleading expression. The officer in question had, however, quickly fallen asleep standing up. Ivana thought that the officer's apparent narcolepsy would have been much funnier if the situation wasn't such a serious one. Looking back at Officer Honda, the latter continued. 

"We are not mistaken. You are a Blade Runner First Class, and after the slaughter at the steel shop they called you Runner Kalashnikov – the Russian Gun." 

"He saying you are Blade Runner. He saying you Runner Kalashnikov, Russian gun." 

“That really should be Kalashnikova.” Ivana replied facetiously to the Officer in English. Yong-soo looked at her confusedly. She cleared her throat. 

"Tell him I don't give two shits, Yong-soo." 

Before Yong-soo got the chance to, however, Officer Honda continued. 

"Please tell this, ah, _intriguing_ and notorious lady that I am acting as an emissary from Captain Bonnefoy, and Captain Bonnefoy has ordered me to bring Ivana Braginskaya to headquarters, even if I have to serve her like sashimi." 

Ivana still had no idea where this conversation was leading, but his repeated use of the name 'Bonnefoy', was enough to make her anxious. She wished she had ordered something more significant to eat, both so that she would have food to turn back to, and something to look at other than the officer in front of her. She gnawed the inside of his cheek as Yong-soo translated. 

"He saying you scary, okay? He saying, boss Bo-nu-foa gives him permission to use violence to make arrest. He say Bo-nu-foa told him rearrange your brains. Make you raw fish– oh! Make you into _sashimi_." 

"Bonnefoy, hmm?" Ivana asked, looking mildly repulsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So! I did the next chapter, and now we meet Ivana! I hope I didn't make Yong-soo's ESL too heavy-handed; it was a lot worse in the original, actually, but please call me out if it's too... blugh.
> 
> Also, for those who don't know, "Bonufoa" is the romaji for the Japanese of "Bonnefoy". Just to clear it up! Oh, and "service" is a term commonly used in Korea for something (usually food in a restaurant, iirc) given to a person for free when they are buying something.
> 
> Sooo again, any questions, any anything, leave a comment! I wanted this chapter published quickly after the last one, but the next few will be a bit more spaced out. :^)

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: WHOOOOOO! Nailed it. Ish. Just like the original, I’ll probably look back on this like “Whaaat I thought this was good?”
> 
> So yeah I dunno I just kinda decided to move it all over here (I posted it on ff from 2011-13, iirc) and try again now I’ve graduated high school and am going to university and things – I'm doing an arts degree (HISTORY/PHILOSOPHY DOUBLE MAJOR REPRESENT) so I think I’ll probably have a bit more time for it, tbh. Plus, my writing has improved!
> 
> If there are any questions or issues, feel free to post a comment! :^)


End file.
